Gordian
by Garmonbozia
Summary: Sometimes a knot gets so tight and complex, it can't be untangled. It has to be cut. Jim sends Moran to cut a very old knot for him. [A two-shot - Jim in London and Seb in New York.]
1. Jim

Don't ask me what I was doing when the phone rang. I don't remember. It gets that way; something more important happens and things just reset, don't they? Things start over from that point. I think I'm lucky I remember the phone ringing at all. I couldn't have been doing anything important, because I don't think I snapped when I answered. I think I just said hello.

It was only after the initial question that I started to get a bit annoyed.

"Moran, _why_ would I have one of your passports? Given the details and photograph on it are going to feature six and a half feet of black muscle, what use would that be to me?"

"No, I think I left it there. This was ages ago, mate, this was before everything. It's just, if it's the one I'm thinking of, the name's coming back on me. If you don't have it I need go looking for it again."

I was composing a sentence in my mind. Well, more of a fragment, really. It would be the word 'you' followed by eight complimentary insults in different languages I've picked up in the last couple of years, and ending back at English with an exclamation point.

I don't know if you've ever had a Bulgarian farmer have a go at you, but I'm sure my father's sheep would have been very insulted if either of those things existed.

But then, and there was a strange sense of epiphany to go along with it, "Hold on, this _is_ ringing bells, actually. I'll check the safe. Stay on the line."

I made my way to the office. "Right-o, mate. Mind you, I'm starting not to care if you don't find it. Rather tear open every hiding place in every flat I ever had than be watching this fucking shit-show right now." The match. He was talking about the football match. I have alerts sent to my phone when Liverpool are playing, and when they're losing. That way I know what mood he's going to be in, whether it's worthwhile trying to speak to him at all.

He was still talking about that when I found the Angel huddled over my desk. In front of her, she had a bit of string laid out on newspaper, and was colouring it in with a whiteboard marker. "What… what're you doing?"

"Sorry, sir," she mumbled. "I ran out of green and I need another strand."

"Well, take it elsewhere, would you? I'm in the middle of something here."

Moran, on the phone, "Who're you talking to?"

"The Angel. She keeps making these little bracelets and I keep _finding_ them places."

"I know, mate. I've got two of my own."

I let that conversation stop there. It wasn't something I wanted to complain about. See, she bites her tongue whenever she's doing something complicated, and it keeps her from singing. I'll take that trade-off any day, thank you. "Moran, I'm putting you down for a minute while I have a look. Now you're alright? You can stay where you are?"

"I think I'll manage…"

"You're not going to get all riled up and run off to murder a ref, are you?"

"I'll get him tomorrow, when he's at home and thinks he's safe except from the Twitter abuse."

I put the phone on the desk before I could figure out if he meant that or not. In retrospect, I think I put the phone down because I knew he _did_. Just didn't want to let that sink in, not to think too hard about that.

And before I can start thinking about it now, we'll move on, thanks.

My safe isn't disguised. There's no need to dress it up as a drinks cabinet or behind a painting, anything stupid like that. For one, it's too bloody big. Believe me when I tell you it's not going anywhere. For another, I had a thief pick it out for me. And show me how to change the code the second she left, but the fact remains, I had expert help. Nobody's getting into it without diamond bits and blow-torches – and even then I'll never tell.

The best part is, you think I'm joking.

Anyway, there's a box at the back of the bottom shelf for things which don't belong to me. It's a mishmash really. Hard to pick any particular item that stands out. I suppose, if I really look at it with a stranger's eyes, maybe the bones remaining from a pair of detached thumbs? Or the preserved eyeball? I don't know. Those shouldn't even really be there. The _point_ of them is that they belong to me now.

But there, under Evie Fairchild's dog-tags and a pocket magnifier I nicked a long time ago, yes, there was a passport. I tried pulling it out to check it was his. It got stuck. Under the lip of the box, I think. Doesn't really matter, it got stuck anyway, and the box jolted forward out of its corner. Something square and shiny flashed behind it. And because I didn't remember anything being behind the box, out of simple curiosity, I reached out and took it.

Turned out it was a photograph. I looked at it, I think, for too long. There was a crackle coming from the phone up on the desk. I reached up and brought it down to me again. "Give me a second, Moran."

"If you don't have it, it doesn't matter."

"No, I… Hold on." With the photo between two fingers, I dislodged the passport. Checked the details in the back and yeah, there he was, all his grim, bald glory, looking as close to his mug shot as I ever want to see. "Yeah, it's here." A moment was lost while he made noises of relief and so forth. "It's under Kevin Pike?"

"That's the non-existent bastard."

"I take it you want this burnt?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

I gave it to the Angel, in the end. She likes burning things. Especially things with plastic coverings that curl up and go black and melt. Just that bit more interesting for her than paper, I suppose. Not to mention, it makes things go easier between us if I throw her these little pleasures. And I'm telling you all of this, not because I give the very slightest shit about the Angel's enjoyments and preferences and not because I think you do, but to show you what sort of gap, what sort of silence, was going on. If you were Moran, you might have assumed I was gone already, wouldn't you? You might have hung up. But he seemed to know.

He held the line and, after a certain amount of time and me having another long look at that photograph, "What is it?"

"Do you have a clean passport, currently?"

You can picture me if you want, sitting on the floor with this stupid photo, telling myself lies. He hadn't done a job for me since I came back from the grave. He needed to be weighed and measured. I might not like the idea, but he could be rusty, or disloyal. And that, in my mind, was why I was doing it. It's a fair point. It's a consideration. But I could have sent him to kill that Liverpool ref if I wanted to test him, couldn't I? He would have enjoyed it more, and trusted me because of that. Didn't have to send him all the way to New York.

From where I was sitting, I could see the Angel out on the couch. Done turning string green, it seemed, and tying it on amongst the rest. Even though she had one foot on the coffee table so her toes could hold the end, and the other strands in her teeth to leave both hands free, an awkward huddle of pointy-jointed bones, I was watching her fingers move around the knots and tying off ends close and tight. And I thought to myself, _Not a bad idea_.

By the time I got off the phone, Moran was coming over to talk about it. I had work to do, but first I'd get rid of his old passport. Otherwise that was going to go by the wayside. I left the office carrying that and a pair of scissors. Cut it into pieces, shred the stamp pages, spread it all out a bit. I wasn't originally going to burn it.

But the photograph was still in my hand. Don't know if I was even aware of that.

Despite being tangled, in string and her own limbs equally, the Angel craned to see it. "Aw!" I heard, which is never a good word. "Is that you?" All of this, you understand, came through her teeth while she was still holding her strands taut. "God, what are you, like, fifteen? Tell you what, if you were in school now, that whole pale-and-interesting thing is really big. You'd be doing well for yourself." I was beginning, by now, to realize I had a large pair of steel scissors in my hand, and the back of her neck was _right_ there. Bare, stretched-out, exposed. Pale and interesting. "And who's the other lad?"

In that moment I did the very worst thing I could think to do to her. I opened the scissors, reached down and snipped her knotted bracelet at the halfway point. Her head snapped back like a rubber band. But she recovered quick enough from the whiplash, and sat straight again. The noise she made when she realized what had happened wasn't human. Then she jumped up and ran back to her bedroom to sulk.

After that, I couldn't bring myself to take the scissors to the passport. I'd leave that for her. And maybe I'd let her go out and buy herself some new string and all. It hadn't really been her fault. She's not right in the head; she can't do anything but talk shite. And it's a fair question, really, when you see someone you know in a photo with someone you don't.

…Jesus, do you see what you just read? Do you?

Because I've been contending with thoughts like that ever since this bloody photo appeared. I should say, for the record, I don't remember putting it in the safe. I don't remember bringing it to this flat. I don't remember having it with me while I was beyond this vale of tears, or putting it in storage before I shuffled off. I don't remember having it at the old place, or the one before that. I don't remember it being taken.

But now that it's here I can't forget. From the second I saw it, it's been in my head. I find myself going back to it when I'm idle and not even knowing how I got there.

And here's the truth, here's the honest truth – the second I saw it I forgot Moran was on the phone.

I just get the feeling I might have been through all this before, y'know? Well, this is the last time. It's over, after this. In fact, it all ought to be over somewhere in the next few hours. Seb called again. This time from New York. Said he thought he'd found him, and if he's right it woudlnt' take long. And I don't see how he could be wrong, y'know? A person is or isn't. And when he's got a name and a city and a profession and a couple of other details to match up… I just don't see how he could've got it wrong.

So, and it's not exactly that I'm hanging by the telephone or anything, I'll probably wait up. Work to do, anyway. And it's late, so there's no need to worry about the Angel. She's a long time sleeping, deep in a pleasant dream, I hope, all full of flame and feathers. But yes, I have work to do. What I think I'll do is sit here and see to that. Maybe have a stiff drink or two.

Try and stop looking at that fecking photograph, because if I do that, I really am just sitting here waiting for the phone to ring.

[A/N – If anybody is waiting for updates on Monopoly/Season Of The Witch, I'm sorry. I've been so low this week, it just hasn't happened. But they _are_ in the post, be with you all soon. Promise.x]


	2. Seb

Two days ago, I arrived in New York with a man's name and some skeleton information. I was supposed to find this man and kill him. It would be done in a swift, painless way, from a distance, and no one would ever know that I was here.

Tonight, I am sitting in an Irish bar in Queens with a young woman from a state much farther south than this. She's in fear of her life, though she doesn't need to be.

You might well say that things aren't quite going to plan.

In a minute I'm going to start explaining all of this. But in the meantime, here's a little brainteaser for you. Maybe you can answer it. And if you can, drop us a little text or something so that I'll have the answer too, alright? Here we go:

The man I came to New York to kill is dead. I did not kill him. So is the job done, or what?

You mull that one over and I'll sit here telling you how I knew this was going to be a massive, glorious clusterfuck of a thing from the very beginning.

The very beginning is about a month ago, and my best mate came back from the dead. If you don't know, don't ask. It's a long story. To give you the short version, I had given up this whole professional murdering lark while he was dead. But he came back and convinced me… _somehow_, Svengali wept… that I should get back to it.

I went and sat in my nice, quiet life for a few beautiful days, knowing they were to be last, like Hitler in the bunker. And then comes the inevitable fucking phone call. 'Got a little job for you, mate. Don't worry. Easy one. You'll like it.' In actual fact, I think I called him first, but if anybody asks you this is how it went.

Now, when Jim gives me a job, it goes one of two ways. Either he's very precise, and he lays everything out – including the reason the death has to happen. Or he's very _angry_ the entire time – _showing_ the reason the death has to happen. And he didn't do either of those things. No, really, I think the only time there was even a flash of anger was when I tried to _ask_ for a reason. Even then, it was only a flash. He crushed it back.

And if that didn't tip me off then frankly I deserve the events of this night.

"A loose end, alright, Moran?"

"You mean he knows too much?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's it exactly."

I've killed men for much less, and with less to go on. I didn't know how to ask him again. Instead, I tried asking the Angel – I know, I know, but desperate times and all that shite. That meant getting her alone, so I took her shopping with me. Like I say, I haven't done this in a while and, at the risk of sounding camp, I had absolutely nothing to wear. Stalking blacks are a very specific thing, y'know.

She was, as you might expect, absolutely no fucking use whatsoever. "I don't know," she said. That pretty little voice where she's considering something. Then she did the other thing she does, when she tells you stupid, inconsequential stuff, but it sounds like riddles. Like the key is there if only you're smart enough. Maybe I've never been smart enough or maybe, as I suspect, the key rolled off along with our poor Scout's marbles. "He found this photo, right? And I only saw it once and now I'm not allowed near it again. It was of him when he was still at school, with someone else. Another boy. And I don't know who that was, but it's someone who makes him feel nice, y'know? Wait, no… No, that's not right… It's someone who makes him feel like _he is nice_. Does that make any sense?"

Not really. So I tried putting that out of my mind. I came on out here. Said to myself that this was one job that should probably stay mysterious. I'd live, just this once, wouldn't I? So I'd come out here, and I'd do what I had to, and then I'd go home.

That's when I ran into my _next_ set of problems.

See, usually it's not all that difficult finding somebody, even if you don't have a lot to go on. Unless someone is deliberately hiding, there's not a lot to it. Especially if it's someone _normal_. Especially if they've got businesses and family. Especially if it's someone with a distinctive feature, like a fading Dublin accent.

Oh yeah. Jim let that much slip. That's probably another thing I should have allowed to put me off this whole business.

All I'm saying is, it shouldn't have been too difficult to lay a pair of strangling hands on one Conor John Cleary, that's all. And you may take what you will from my phrasing and my frustrated tone.

The first night went by. So did the second. I found his bars, I found his wife, I found his kids and the apartment and the school and some of his mates. I did not find so much as a picked-off ragnail to suggest the presence of Conor Cleary. Nothing. This morning was also uneventful. I sat down to dinner wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was more to this. I would make sense, wouldn't it, if this were some sort of test. There'd be some extra bit here that I was supposed to puzzle out. I wasn't thinking about it very _hard_, because when I let that get into my mind I became very angry indeed with Jim. You don't send somebody on a job without all the details. I don't care if it is meant to be a trial. You just don't do that. It's cruel. More to the point, it's rude. More to the point, it's bloody stupid, because if that person gets caught or captured, you've given them no reason not to sell you right up Shit Creek and break your paddles over their knee.

_That's_ what I was thinking about over dinner, in the little diner under the hotel.

That's what distracted me enough for someone to get very close to sweetening my coffee for me. I don't take sugar. Anyway, if a stranger is brushing nonchalantly past your table and tries very hard to fill your mug with fine white powder, it's probably sugar anyway. I grabbed hold of the wrist before it could turn and empty that little packet. Grabbed hard, and heard, from the far end of the arm, a feminine little yelp. Keeping my grip on her, tightening it, I guided her easily to the seat across the table from me.

Took away that little packet with my free hand and spilled it on the floor like salt.

She is sunburnt, freckles, long red hair. She's the one in the bar with me now. So I haven't killed her. She sat opposite me looking fairly certain that I would. I told her, in no uncertain terms, that I might.

"You're Moran, aren't you?" Her breath was caught. Proper fucking terrified. I don't see that often. I never get this close to people I might be threatening. It's hard to say whether I liked the feeling or not. "You're Sebastian Moran."

"You know that," I told her. Sometimes it helps people to hear these things out loud, "And you still tried to kill me just now."

"Well, when it's you or me, you can't blame a girl for trying." Nervous, breathy laugh. She was going to bolt the second I let go of her so I kept hold. But I was pretty sure her name wasn't Conor and anyway, there is _nothing_ of Irish on her voice. Touch of Foghorn Leghorn, maybe, that's it.

"You're safe," I told her.

A word of advice – I don't know how likely it is, but should you ever find yourself in a situation like this, this is where you stop talking. You argue for your freedom at that moment. Soon as I call you 'safe', you start the exit strategy. Certainly don't keep talking and give me more questions that you'll have to stay and answer.

"But… But you're in town. And you're asking about Cleary. I…"

"First, how do you know that?"

Our redhead friend got necessarily cagey. "Friend of mine. Works in one of his bars."

I could've pressed her on that. But I couldn't decide if it was important or not, and the perks of being the bigger, scarier half of a conversation include being able to come back to a question later on. "Second, where the fuck is Cleary?"

"Six feet under," says she. Me thinking to myself, if nothing else, it explains why I haven't been able to find him. "Five years since. I can take you where he's buried, if you want."

I'll return you now, if I may, to the question I asked you to ponder back at the top of all this. Cleary's dead, but I didn't kill him. So is the job done? It's not even that important. I'm just trying to decide what to tell Jim when I have to call him up.

In the end, we didn't go to where he's buried. We came here, to one of his old establishments. Nice little place, nice and cosy. I feel like I stick out, but nevertheless. We got here, and that friend of our red-haired friends stood us two drinks. We raised them in respectful toast to a full colour portrait photo up behind the bar.

You need to remember, I didn't have a picture when I got here. Otherwise that might have been a dead giveaway, don't you think? Oh, and to all of the sarky bastards out there who are asking why it never occurred to me that he might have passed, _because I was sent to fucking kill him, _alright? His untimely demise was both the first and last thing on my mind, thank you very much.

The girl next to me doesn't know this, but I'm just a _tiny_ bit panicked right now. Because he didn't seem all that bothered about this, but what if Jim gets really fucking aggravated that we didn't get this kill? I might just stay in New York, y'know. Give him a week or so to calm down, maybe…

"But I don't understand," I tell her. Just so I'll have something to offer up to the enraged god at the temple, "What did Cleary ever do to you, love?"

"To _me_? No, no, honey. No, I'm in your line. I'm pro."

And she tried to slip me a powder. I get the feeling that what I do with a bullet, she does with a shot. With a 'friend' that worked right here under Conor Cleary's nose, it would have been easy. Something toxic and exotic.

"So who was the client, then?"

She begins to look at me strangely. Not like she's protecting her client. I'd appreciate that. We all do that. Well, the smart ones among us anyway. If they'll hire you to do one person, they'll happily hire someone to do you. It's not that sort of look at all, though. She looks at me as if I should already know this.

I get this cold, gathering feeling at the base of my ribs, like foreknowledge, like nausea.

Her brow is furrowed and she says, "But… I assumed that was why you were here. Didn't he send you for me? What am I, a loose end? I know too much?"

"Will you shut up with the me-me-me? I don't even know your fucking name. Now be specific. In as many words, first-name-and-surname, who was your client for Cleary?"

As specific as I asked her to be, in as many words, first-name-and-surname, "Jim Moriarty."

I stand up very slowly from the bar. I leave down the money for the drinks. Tell my poisonous new friend one more time that she is safe, and it was _relatively_ nice to meet her, and it won't happen again. I have to go outside now. I have to get signal on my mobile and make an international call.

And I have to give that prick the fucking bollocking of his _life_. Sending me all the way out here? I'm five hours behind him, fucking timezones, just to take the piss? Sending me on a wild goose chase and for what? Just to see if I'd go? Sending me to bump off someone he'd already had bumped off, _five years fucking since_?! I've got a life in London now. I can't just be running off round the world over _nothing_.

I'm going to kill him. I don't know if that's possible over the phone but I'm going to give it a fucking good go and all…

And to think I was worried about what to tell him. He's dead. He's so dead and he doesn't even know it.

The phone rings once.

It _begins_ to ring again when it is snatched up. "Hello?"

He's up late. It's only evening here, but it must be getting towards midnight, his end. Through my gritted teeth, "James! How do you do?"

"Did you find him?" He asks that so quickly. The second he recognizes my voice. I don't even know if I'd finished talking. That's the first question out of him. His voice is low and… _worried_. 'Worried' is not a word I use freely for him. But _worried_.

I don't think this is a joke. I know he can act when he needs to. But if he'd sent me here to take the mick, this would be the punchline. He would be laughing now. And he's not.

_Worried_. Jesus.

What do I do now?

"Yeah. Yeah I have." Lie. Lie like a journo at an official inquiry. Apparently that's what I do. "He's dead-to-rights. I'll be back in touch, in a bit. But it'll be soon done, alright?" I don't even know what I'm saying, not really.

"Cheers, Moran," and he _sighs_ that away from him, real honest gratitude. "I do appreciate this, y'know." He doesn't know. Or remember, maybe, is a better word, but he doesn't know.

We say our goodbyes and hang up. There on the street, inside about twelve seconds, I compose a text. Send it to the Angel, hoping she's tucked up in bed or at least out of the room where he can't question her.

_Find photograph. Burn it. No questions. Don't get caught._


End file.
